Written submission by David Eatock

2nd year Ryerson English student David Eatock has sent us another original piece of writing, just as beautiful as the last.

Read, and let your heart melt, below.


Weathered minds have a way of roaming
and this one roamed to a bench by a harbor
at the time where sunlights falls into coma
and thought ravaged brains hone a nocturnal canvas

this man on the bench is trapped within a reverie,
caught in a downpour of torrential memories
as tonight the evening is a thinking anatomy,
the silence and blackness are spurring his thoughts
like an unwelcome visitor entering an attic,
extracting that which is swathed in dust
and bolting it to the floor of the master bedroom

he met Alicia three months prior,
a bohemian girl residing in the streets,
a lady robed in black with terribly fetid hair,
the kind who would easily fall in love with him

he recalled most of all her angst ridden dialogue,
her profession of muses and the claim to her art,
the fact that she was a street girl by choice
and her flagship sentiment, seemingly memorized,

“I drive myself into oblivion and present my readers
with what I find there, this misery is my inspiration,
a small secluded pool in the desert of my existence.”

he thought it was ill advised and quite frankly artificial,
that she was a coward hiding away from reality,
for some reason he thought that he was different

months passed by and he soon meant the world to her,
he appeared in her art, which was now bright and optimistic,
as a gallant warrior who would destroy (for) her,
he had planted a garden within her that would not soon die

but he is a man of many masks,
a taciturn demon who feeds on heartache

and his sadistic intent would soon materialize

it was a ball on the eve of the new year,
they walked hand in hand and she smiled with glee,
extravagant gowns paraded the ballroom
and a giant chandelier hung as an ornate spectator

it was at the moment that she whispered to him,

“you know I’ll always love you,”

that he knew it was time

there was a woman at the bar making lustful eyes at him,
a woman he would make his tool for demolition,
he approached her suavely, his hand caressed her back,
his lips reached for hers and Alicia shattered instantly

she watched them leave and a storm cloud brewed in her chest,
he had pissed all over the garden he planted, he had broken her heart

he had done what he set out to do

Alicia was not the first and would not be the last,
he mused on this as he peered from the harbor,
but this was not the memory that most occupied his thoughts

there was a scene he tried his best to tuck away,
a killing mannequin in the corner of his attic
that did not often show it’s face, but reminded him
how it feels to be the broken and not the breaker

it was many years ago, he was eighteen then,
a bohemian boy residing in his own mind,
he thought of his body as a sepulcher,
he loathed himself habitually

but he met a girl who made him feel alive,
who buried his hatred in mounds of satisfaction,
she made life bright and beautiful,
he loved himself through her presence

one afternoon she took him to this harbor,
there was a murky mist trudging through the air
like a thin blanket of ash and a ferocious wind
that warmed of a storm

he watched her in bliss,
her red lipstick illuminating through the grey,
her porcelain skin making his heart bounce,
all of this before she ushered in a tempest

“His name is Henry”

the wind died down and silence hung all around them,
at first he did not understand, he reached out to touch her skin,
but she smacked his hand away, her head turned and
she stared into his eyes coldly

“I’m sorry”

his lips were rising and falling,
looking for words that were trapped within a void,
he felt that she must have always worn some mask,
that she had built him up only to destroy him

he looked out at the water as she walked away,
draped in the pangs of his heartache,
moulding into the demon she made of him

so now many years later he sits at this harbor,
welling up in his hatred, clothed in the ashes of his youth,
wordless, but unable to escape the bitter truth

that it was that moment that started it all


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